


Shake Loose

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [18]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood mentioned, Dismemberment, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Phobias, mentioned - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:05:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15981461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Jim fails his range test, and has an unexpected reaction.This story takes place in the Dreams of Lace and Satin universe, but can be read as a standalone as I do not make any major references to what's come before.





	Shake Loose

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Please heed the warnings, this gets pretty not great in terms of Jim's PTSD which we haven't really dug into much in this series but ended up coming up as I wrote the entry.

“Christ, Jim,” Harvey says, when Jim’s target reaches the firing booth from the back wall. Jim takes his hand off the switch for the mechanism and starts unpinning it from the board.

“Shit.” His pattern is all over the place, one or two of his shots aren’t even inside the target. Not one of them are in its center.

“How long has this been going on?” Harvey asks, concerned.

Jim frowns, looking down at his target. “Maybe the gun sight’s off.”

Harvey sighs then holds out his hand. “Alright, Magoo, let’s test your theory then.”

Jim huffs. “Very funny.”

He hands his service pistol over, follows Harvey to his booth and watches him load it up. They send a target down range and Harvey checks the sight, then unloads on it.

Jim is certain it’s the pistol—it’s a new model of his old Smith and Wesson, one he’d been loath to replace—until they bring the new target back from down range. The pattern is almost as tight as Jim’s usually is, and he frowns as he pulls the target off the board.

“Huh.”

“Are you serious right now?” Harvey asks, oozing exasperation.

Jim huffs. “My eyes are fine, Harv.”

“No,” Harvey insists, “they’re not. Jim—”

“Have I ever missed a shot on the job?” Jim argues.

“I don’t know,” his friend replies, leaning his elbow against the countertop inside the booth. “It ain’t pool. We don’t call our shots—so, you tell me.”

Jim grits his teeth. He’s not fatally missed, but... He sighs, shoulders slumping, and he feels every day of his forty-three years.

“You had to lean half across the table last week to count the tear drops on our suspect’s face to see if they lined up with our victim’s description.” Harvey points out, voice lowered in deference to any potentially listening ears.  

“That’s not—”

“Hell,” he continues over Jim’s attempt to protest, seemingly determined to drive that point home, “Oswald had to call out to you from the sidewalk yesterday, or you wouldn’t have even noticed him waiting!”

He isn’t sure why it bothers him so much, but Jim has to force himself not to get defensive. In all truth, if he thinks back on the past year, he can recall several instances where he’s had to squint—to read the paper, to see the TV, to understand his own son. And now, this.

“Crap.”

Harvey chuckles. “That’s the spirit!”

***

Back when he’d been in the Marines, Jim’s greatest fear had been the loss of a limb. It’s a very real fear for a soldier to have, especially when reality sets in and you’re sitting in the middle of a desert listening to mortars in the distance. He’s never been able to enjoy fireworks the same after coming home, but at least he’d come home—and in one piece. Like most, he never gave much consideration to the psychological ramifications of mucking through the shit, and there’s not telling what’s going to drag those ghosts out of the closet, so it still manages to catch him off guard when he gets a particularly nasty nightmare.

This time, he’s spared the visuals—dismembered bodies in the sand, blood splattered across the side of his squad’s Humvee—but the black in the midst of all the cacophony sounds is possibly even more disturbing. Jim raises his tired arms, tries to rub the sand out of his eyes but all he feels is sticky, wet water and that can’t be right.

They’re in the middle of the desert, there’s no water unless it’s in a canteen—and then realization dawns and he’s pressing his fingers into his face. And he can’t see the blood, but that’s what it is, tacky and warm, slipping between his fingers. He can’t see it because his eyes aren’t in their sockets, or maybe they are but he can’t tell because it’s all been mangled by shrapnel, the tattered flesh of his eyes squishing against his prodding fingers and he’s screaming…

His sergeant calls for him to snap out of it. “Get it together, Gordon! We’ve got asses to save, soldier!”

“No…” Jim sobs, “No!”

“Jim!” Sergeant shouts, “Wake up! Jim!”

Jim comes to swinging, chest heaving and heart pounding. His hands fly to his face, blood rushing in his ears and there’s definitely something wet on his face but Jim’s eyes startle open and he sees light and color and the concerned face of his husband staring back at him. Jim reaches for him, and Oz fairly leaps into his arms, wraps himself around Jim like a shield.  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears, clinging desperately to Oswald as he turns his face into his neck and chokes on a sob that won’t be suppressed. “Fuck.”

“It’s alright,” Oz soothes. “You’re safe now, Jim. You aren’t there anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Jim whispers shakily, breaths hitched as the adrenaline leaves him in stages, body shaking with the aftermath of his panic.

Oswald sighs, fingers combing gently though his hair. “Don’t apologize, darling. You can’t control them; you know I don’t mind.”

Jim squeezes him closer, presses a kiss to his bare collar. “Love you.”

“Daddy?” a hesitant voice calls from the door then, shocking Jim’s spine with a new sort of tension.

Oswald leans away from their embrace just enough that Jim can see the kids standing in the doorway. He can just make out their sleep-mussed expressions, far too worried for their years. Jim sighs, then inclines his head in invitation. Barbara, thirteen and always exuberant, fairly launches herself across the room and clamors onto the bed to throw her arms around Jim’s neck.

Martin follows at a more sedate pace, expression pensive as he signs, “Nightmare?”

Jim nods, raising a hand to mimic his words as he replies1, “I’m fine now. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“You sounded like you were being murdered to death,” Barbara says.

Oswald snorts. “Trust me, child, no one would ever survive the attempt.”

“Oz,” Jim chastises, though its effect is weakened by his own rueful grin.

Martin signs, “It’s true.”

Jim silently answers, “Not in front of your sister.”

His adoptive son shrugs, but nods. Christ, he’s just like his father. What the hell is Jim going to do with them? He kisses Barbara’s forehead, rubs her back as he gently leans away from her death-grip.

“It’s alright now,” he says. “It was just a bad dream. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Martin purses his lips, his hand down by his side as he signs, “Was it bad?”

Jim makes to answer, then balls his hand into a fist. Martin is seventeen now, sharp as ever and Jim doesn’t want to treat him like a child, but there are certain things a parent shouldn’t burden their children with.

“It was a long time ago.” Jim finally replies, this time without speaking. Teenage boys are touchy about how they show concern and Martin is no different, though not as bad as some, which is why he’d asked the question where no one else would see him do it.

Oswald pulls Barbara’s hair behind her ear, squeezes her shoulder reassuringly, and it only makes Jim love him more, the way he’s aware of her deeper fears. When Jim had gotten the call, almost four years ago, that his brother and sister-in-law had been killed in a massive highway accident, he’d feared the worst. And losing the brother he’d only recently reconciled with had been painful enough but the thought of his niece…

Jim gives Barbara another squeeze. It’s not likely that either of them will ever be over it, but his daughter by circumstance is especially sensitive. She’s a soft-hearted warrior, compassionate but ready to fight for the people she loves, and Jim admires her spirit. He’s grateful to have her, despite the loss that brought them together.

“Why don’t you two head back to bed,” Jim suggests, “since I’m not actively being murdered to death.”

Martin pats Barbara on the back, and signs, “Come on. You don’t want to be here when they start cuddling.”

Barbara grimaces. “Ew.”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “Yes, we’re very gross, now shoo. It’s a school night.”

They shuffle out without much fuss, Barbara stopping by Oswald’s side of the bed to hug him goodnight as well. When the children first came to live with them, Oz had been so awkward with their affection. Jim can find it funny, looking back on it now, but it was bittersweet at the time. Oz has always struggled to see himself worthy of that kind of affection. The kind that isn’t artificial or deceptive. His eyes had been the size of tiny planets the first time Barbara had called him “Pops.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Oswald asks when they’re alone again.

Jim sighs, but his subconscious isn’t subtle. “I failed my range test today.”

Oswald blinks, eyes widening. “Was there something wrong with the gun?”

“Not so much.” Jim huffs. He appreciates Oswald’s certainty that surely the failure must be with the tool rather than in Jim himself. “I’ve got an appointment with the department’s optometrist tomorrow.”

Oswald’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand…why would that trigger a nightmare?”

“It’s—” Jim struggles here, very aware that his husband has an actual physical handicap, and he himself is just being a fucking baby in comparison. “I don’t know,” he finishes lamely.

Oz regards him blandly. “You’re a shitty liar.”

Jim sighs, rubs his forehead.

“Before I joined the service,” he says, “I wanted to be a lawyer. And joining the military was just the way to pay for it. But the things you do…see—they make you appreciate the little things you take for granted, like all your fingers and toes. Especially when you see your buddies getting sent home with fewer appendages than what they joined up with.

“And when I got back, it was difficult to get back to that headspace, again, you know? Normal shit—what am I gonna do; where do I _fit_?” Jim huffs, “Guess that’s what you take for granted in the military—you don’t have to have a plan, someone’s always telling you where to go, what you need to do.

“Anyway.” He shrugs. “Coming back, it didn’t sit right, signing myself for something that didn’t make use of what I’d seen so many others leave the war without. And I know it doesn’t make any sense—I know losing a sense or a limb is something you can learn to live without, but—”

“Jim, phobias aren’t rational,” Oswald interjects. “And you know I’m no fan of psychology, but has it ever occurred to you that being exposed to the potential of losing one of your limbs on a regular basis may have given you a complex?”

Jim snorts. “I was exposed to death, too. You don’t see me running from gunfire in the middle of a shootout.”

Oswald purses his lips, like there’s something he wants to say but is trying really hard to withhold.

“What?”

“You’re a Sherlock Holmes fan—what do you make of Doctor Watson?” Oswald asks.

“I am not addicted to adrenaline,” Jim answers drily.

Oz holds up his hands, diplomatically replies, “Okay, that’s really beside the point anyway.” He takes up Jim’s hand, brushes a kiss against his knuckles. “You’re being too hard on yourself. It’s okay to have irrational fears, Jim. It’s okay to talk about them, it doesn’t make you a bad person for having…I don’t know—medical anxiety? Just because you feel like others have it worse. You’re allowed to wallow in self-pity occasionally.”

“When did you get so wise?” Jim asks, grinning despite himself.

“The moment you decided to start listening to me,” Oswald cheekily supplies. He adjusts the blankets and lays down on his side facing Jim. He lifts his arm and bids Jim into the space beside him. “Come on. I need to get my beauty sleep if I’m accompanying you to your appointment tomorrow.”

It isn’t a big deal—sitting in a chair and reading characters off a sheet—but the idea of Oswald coming along dispenses Jim’s remaining unease. He settles into Oz’s embrace, kissing him soundly on his way before resting his head against his husband’s chest. And there’s something about the moment that makes Jim want to hold onto it. He lets his hands wander down to clutch the swell of Oz’s hips, soft and thick.

“See? Could always be worse.” Oswald whispers, his own hands sneaking down Jim’s back.

“What do you mean?”

 Oswald chortles. “Two words: Erectile Dysfunction.”

Jim groans. “You’re a terrible person.”

“You love me,” Oz asserts.

Jim smiles against his lips. “Yeah, I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Even though Martin isn't deaf, Jim signs as he speaks as a show of support. This will be elaborated upon if I ever get around to writing the fic idea about Martin coming to live with Jim and Oz. lol


End file.
